


Our name

by 37h4n0l



Category: B: The Beginning (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Hypnosis, M/M, Minatsukicest, Porn, have some angsty identity crisis smut, minatsuki knew he wasnt minatsuki all along headcanon, real minatsuki gets way too fucking angry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 07:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14327775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/37h4n0l/pseuds/37h4n0l
Summary: Minatsuki is a concept, one that Jaula Blanca has tried to destroy and that he has clung to desperately for years and years, out of spite if not anything else. He collected those little pieces and glued them back together, conditioning himself into thinking they were something precious. He won’t let the reggie he lent it to steal it from him.





	Our name

**Author's Note:**

> Whose vent fic? *Looks around* Not mine for sure, at all
> 
> The fact that Phantom Minatsuki knows he's not Minatsuki... I'm just really a sucker for that hc, but you can take it as mild canon divergence or something, I don't know. I just suspected it was that way from the scene where they talk to each other on those rails illuminated by spotlights, it was one of the episodes around the middle if I'm not mistaken. They kinda sounded like they were cooperating in the leadership thing, so there's that.
> 
> Here. *Tosses* Take this porn.

Minatsuki is a pawn that does its job decently.

 

Most of the time.

 

But when he doesn’t, he’s somewhat infuriating to watch - Laica looks on through the odd colour scheme of the lenses, as Kukuri dangles mid-air and the last gasps escape her mouth. It’s one of those moments when it’s hard not to react and instead of lashing out like reggies are so prone to, he bites the inside of his mouth, a little paranoid about it being noticeable. Nobody’s paying attention to him anyway. Certainly not Minatsuki with his bloodshot eyes as the leather makes so much friction it almost sounds loud in the silent and petrified room. He squeezes and squeezes, with way more force than necessary. The abstinence symptoms must be taking their toll. 

 

“She’s dead” comments Laica, not a single hint of irritation in his voice. Because he’s good at hiding it, likely. 

 

The pawn is deviating from the technical aspects of the plan. It’s going off on a tangent and maybe somebody should yank him back. Minatsuki has lost it, and it shows in his tense movements, how messy the blonde rivulets of hair have gotten, how he’s snappish and reeks of alcohol. 

 

When he downs another glass of heavy liquor, Laica wonders if he could have ended up in the same way. How easy it would have been to go down the road of hedonism, to not want anything more than the enjoyment that comes from sadistic murder, or the luxury, the petty feeling of superficial power and just  _ letting go _ . Does Minatsuki forget, he wonders. Does he forget that not even his name belongs to him? Does he forget that Laica could wrap his hands around his pretty neck and put him to the same end as Kukuri, that he could do it whenever? People either drink for pleasure or for that brief amnesia, but come to think of, to Minatsuki the former can only be a direct consequence of the latter. 

 

He’s on the verge of falling asleep on the table in a completely undignified manner - the others have already left - when Laica walks up to him and glances down from his standing position, analytical. Minatsuki notices his presence, he didn’t put effort into hiding it.

 

“Hey,” he mutters, barely a square centimetre of flushed cheeks peeking out from under the cascade of hair, “bring me another bottle, will you.”

 

_ This is the one you picked as your phantom _ , a voice in Laica’s head tells him intrusively,  _ he looks kind of pathetic _ . He doesn’t move or say anything. He addresses those considerations first; anyone would look like this when their control slips and they realize they don’t have as much influence as they would like to. It’s easy to spot people who are being manipulated, isn’t it? They’re often sprawled across tables, bent in an uncomfortable position that doesn’t bother them because of drunkenness, they act impulsively without thinking of the consequences. Sometimes there’s a flurry of hormones quivering in their entire body that they desperately push down by incapacitating their nervous system itself. 

 

“Laica…?” It’s barely a mutter.

 

“You shouldn’t drink more.”

 

“Don’t… tell me what to-” Minatsuki interrupts himself as he’s pulled his head upwards, enough to realize it’s just the two of them left in the room. The air around them stalls. 

 

“Listen, I’m not sure you’re in the right state to understand what I’m saying,” the other huffs out, “but you can’t go on like this. I’m warning you right now.”

 

Minatsuki hangs his head down at that, turning away from the table and towards him with his whole body, letting out a weak, irritated snicker. 

 

“Are you trying to pick a fight with me as well… or something…?”

 

Laica knows he’s gonna lunge at him before he even does it. His knowledge on how he works is normally on par with Minatsuki’s knowledge of himself, and when incapacitated like this, it exceeds it, even. So he grabs the wrist of the hand that was going to punch him, elegantly and effortlessly, then the other too, bending them behind Minatsuki’s back to restrain him. For a moment he’s perplexed as to how far one’s own delusions could go, for him to think he could’ve hit him, that there wasn’t an insurmountable gap in capabilities between them. But maybe, he hesitates for a mere second, maybe there’s something legitimate in thinking Minatsuki could come close to the person he’s replacing. Or maybe he’s reading too much into drunken behaviour.

 

It seems to dawn on him after that, and he stops resisting against Laica clutching onto him like handcuffs, muscles growing lax as he pants, hollow gaze directed towards the floor in a semblance of disinterest but evident exhaustion. Those temporarily skewed dopamine and testosterone levels are there underneath but they won’t manifest themselves in a wrecked body like that, staggering with its last strengths around the limit of passing out or falling asleep.

 

The next words come out in a voice way too dark and way too deep, but Laica doesn’t notice until he has already said them.

 

“Are you getting this desperate, Minatsuki?”

 

The silence lasts a few awkward, awkward seconds.

 

“Hmm?” He tilts his chin up slightly in amusement, strands across his nose and mouth in a big tangle. “I don’t care anymore… Kill…” He inhales wrong, half a cough. “...kill them…  Everyone… I’ll kill you too, you’ll see…”

 

“You won’t.” Laica leans close to his ear from behind and there’s so much pity in his voice he almost sounds disheartened. “Because you’re my replacement. A phantom. You’ll be around as long as you’re useful and then you’ll be cast aside. This is your role in the play, you’re reaching the end of the cycle so I can be reborn, that’s all there is to it.”

 

He realizes he hasn’t talked this much at once for perhaps months.

 

“So what?” Minatsuki spits out the question, clearly without thinking, and it makes the other’s grip tighten instinctively how he’s not nervous or afraid, even if it all comes from inebriation. “What’s it even mean? I… I do what I want. And I can kill anyone…  _ Kill _ …”

 

He repeats the same word over and over, a deranged obsession, but it doesn’t give him more strength - he wants to keep talking but, Laica can imagine, his head is spinning too much for a moment, his balance falters. He lets go of Minatsuki, deeming him incapable of causing harm to anyone but himself, before he can continue. He watches on as his phantom takes a few wobbly steps away from him, turning his back.

 

“But what do you do?” Minatsuki flips around almost losing his balance. Laica watches and watches and  _ watches _ , maintaining his cool skillfully. “You sit in a corner, you don’t talk, you don’t do anything but carry around drugs. You’re not even enjoying yourself.” He ends with a brief laughter.

 

Laica’s right eye contracts in a tic under the shades. He’s completely motionless aside from that. Holding back is consuming too many energies to invest any into trying to respond.

 

“So no, I don’t mind being your phantom or whatever you say.”

 

He launches himself forward. Another attempt? Laica dodges a left arm in the process of transmuting into a golden blade. Minatsuki slashes in all directions indiscriminately but without enough force, his murderous intent heavy as the stench in the room nevertheless. Laica shouldn’t let himself get angry too. Nobody would control the situation anymore if he did.

 

Minatsuki then looks at him, somehow matching his gaze perfectly despite the glasses, with those tired, half-lidded blue eyes.

 

“I’m more  _ Minatsuki _ than you at this point.”

 

Laica has thought about it a few times - that maybe he shouldn’t have given his name and public image to someone else.  _ Identities _ , they are flimsy and deceiving concepts, easy to create, break, exchange, and that much harder to keep safe. Yet people feel tormented without one, a horrible and disgusting irony which turned “Laica” protective of his own inadvertently. Minatsuki is a concept, one that Jaula Blanca has tried to destroy and that he has clung to desperately for years and years, out of spite if not anything else. He collected those little pieces and glued them back together, conditioning himself into thinking they were something precious. He won’t let the reggie he lent it to  _ steal _ it from him.

 

He finds it bitterly amusing that, despite being sober, he doesn’t know how and why he’s suddenly facing a wall, his forearm before him trembling from the exaggerated muscular tension - between it and the surface is a perplexed Minatsuki, as much as one can  _ look _ perplexed after that amount of alcohol. Laica’s shades are off, too. He can’t even remember where he tossed them, as if his mind has just decided to take a leap in time. The heaving of Minatsuki’s chest comes through from under the pressure. He feels the eye activate beyond his will.

 

It makes it easy, though, to prompt Minatsuki to follow his steps, even if his movements are still uncoordinated as they approach the bedroom. Laica doesn’t say a single word on the way; one good thing about hypnosis is that people don’t get nosy while undergoing it, and so he can enjoy his anger in silence. He locks the door cautiously behind them. What isn’t so cautious, on the other hand, is the way he throws Minatsuki on the bed, eliciting a startled gasp despite the state of trance. There’s a box of full syringes on the table, ready to use as quickly as possible, and Laica snatches one without trying to be sophisticated even a little. He’s on top of Minatsuki in mere seconds, the manipulative stupor undone with a blink.

 

“Huh… Where…?” His voice almost sounds sober when he regains full consciousness.

 

“Be quiet.”

 

It’s not a warning so they won’t be heard. It’s an order.

 

Laica has the syringe prepared in one hand, holding Minatsuki’s arms above his head before he can even start struggling - but struggle he does, and keeping him in place becomes difficult. The other places a knee across his thighs, immobilizing both in one move as he places his weight into it; the needle approaches Minatsuki’s neck despite his curses and semi-coherent phrases regarding  _ killing _ . He then reformulates the plan a little and halts, emptying the syringe onto his own tongue whimsically before throwing it away. Minatsuki seems puzzled, but his eyes glisten at the prospect of the golden liquid. It’s then that Laica leans down and kisses him, slowly but not less ferociously, gleeful about the fact that his little gimmick seems to be working because the other man’s lips open for him promptly and willingly. As his tongue spreads the bitter hormonal blend in every corner of Minatsuki’s mouth, he can feel his body relaxing underneath.

 

“Not so rebellious now, are we” he mutters, looking down at  _ the reggie _ \- his hair draped across the sheets, his eyes that have suddenly gone tender, betraying pliability and numbness, and he runs a thumb along his cheek with an affection reserved only for those who are this much at his mercy.

 

It takes but a few minutes for Minatsuki to be panting face down, nails digging deep into the pillow as he goes along with whatever happens to him. No wonder they all call the serum a  _ drug _ and not  _ medicine _ . Both his consciousness and free will are half-muffled just like the noises he’s making, and he’s not fighting back and raising objections, something that - as a notion - sends Laica’s arousal levels through the roof. There’s something exceptionally lewd about how the muscles of Minatsuki’s back tense up when he thrusts into him, too, the faint light from the window reflecting on a glistening line of sweat close to where Laica is gripping his waist. He fucks him while convincing himself that the agitated, violent movements of his hips are a necessary correlate of the act. That he isn’t doing it out of anger and bitterness. 

 

“Ah,... Yes…” Minatsuki is mumbling fragments of solicitations before himself softly, more satisfied than resentful, “Lai… ca…”

 

His face, blushing and worked up, is partially - and uncomfortably - turned back towards the other who still has his cock buried deep inside of him, but it’s  _ not enough _ and Laica slams into him so hard his expression convulses.

 

“That’s not what you call me here.”

 

He has to wonder whether it was visible in those lighting conditions how wide his eyes went as he said that. He leans down lower, grabbing onto Minatsuki’s throat and watching the long, platinum blonde locks pile up above his hand; he’s getting close to a feeling he can fully enjoy with the tight heat around his cock and the knowledge that his message is starting to come through, albeit he can’t put it into words himself. There’s rancor in it, that much he knows. He angles a thrust right and revels in how loud and surprised the subsequent moan sounds. The word the other utters next between two whines is more faint but not inaudible.

 

“Minatsuki…”

 

“Say it louder” Laica instructs with a trembling voice and a roll of hips.

 

“Minatsuki!”

 

He can feel his self-control dissipating, falling apart shred after shred, and he has to groan at how much he’s been missing having his name back, as silly and pathetic as it is to be attached to a mere  _ word _ to that extent. But he doesn’t have to care, not with “Minatsuki” being such a  _ good pawn _ , docile and bent over for him. It’s relaxing to not have to stress over keeping things in check, when the  _ things _ do that on their own and with  _ enthusiasm _ , as much of it as Minatsuki’s when he takes his cock with those lustful and intoxicated noises. It makes Laica want to play around and see how far he can push him until he really does feel humiliated - something that never happens, because the more unapologetic and rough he gets, the more he seems to  _ love it _ . It drives Laica up the wall. But it turns him on as well.

 

“...More, ah,  _ Minatsuki _ ,...” the reggie repeats  _ his  _ name with the satisfaction of someone who just found out how to push another person’s buttons. 

 

“Have you actually been wanting this?” Laica asks, breathy, with a minute grin the other can’t see from his position.

 

“Haven’t I told you-” Minatsuki interrupts his own reply with a moan, “What I do is… I enjoy myself…”

 

He pulls out to flip him around and plunge back into him after casting his hazy expression a stare, holding his long legs wide apart. His limit draws closer along with a sense of looming frustration, both the cause and solution of which is that pleading face, disheveled hair and smooth chest rising and falling. It tenses up with a twitch when Laica decides to unleash the last remnants of his discontent by picking up his rhythm. Minatsuki is nothing like him when he moans like that and when he accepts whatever gratification he can get out of the  _ here and now _ without sparing the future a thought. In this moment, he looks like the polar opposite of someone feeling so much contempt towards the world. And when Laica realizes that the burden he bestowed upon Minatsuki wasn’t too heavy for him to carry at all, his teeth grit against each other compulsively and he has to grab him by the waist to lift him and fuck him harder, harder still. He slants down, right next to his ear, so close that his lips and sweat-drenched cheek almost brush against it. He gathers everything in himself to sound condescending.

 

“ _ Reggie. _ ”

 

And yet it only strikes as angry and sad. 

 

It makes Minatsuki come though, with somewhat of a whine, because he’s too far gone to detect subtleties in intonation and he doesn’t seem to care about anything but carnal pleasure anyway. Laica doesn’t know why but it jabs at him a little. He manages to free his head of thoughts for a while, at least as he rides out his orgasm, emptying into Minatsuki’s ass with disregard and savouring how the muscles tense up around him. His eyes, both the ordinary and the transplanted one, remain closed until he draws back - only a few seconds later does he open them again, finding his gaze pointed towards Minatsuki.

 

He doesn’t move an inch, still slumping back on the bed among almost soundless pants with a single knee pulled up. Laica could attribute his eerie calm to the drug, but he knows he’s sobered up since quite a while now even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself and a numb brain isn’t the reason why Minatsuki hasn’t tried to cut his throat at any point. Minatsuki - the one everyone  _ knows as _ Minatsuki, the one issuing orders, respected by subordinates. The Minatsuki who acts as he pleases. The Minatsuki who has been around for longer by now than  _ any other Minatsuki _ and lived a life bearing that name. The Minatsuki who has never been  _ him _ , who never turned into anything other than his own person, not even through forced obedience and brainwashing. The Minatsuki with a small, satiated smirk ghosting over his face like a question. The  _ actual _ Minatsuki - not Laica. 

 

There never has been anyone who felt like him. Anyone to understand the despair of being someone’s spare. To Minatsuki, to whom his name now belongs more than to himself, it doesn’t even register as a problem.

 

That’s why Laica can’t bear it any longer and has to turn his head the other way - and also why, a few days later, he lets the syringe fall on the floor and Minatsuki stagger away in abstinence towards his fate. Maybe a dead man can’t rob him of anything else. 

**Author's Note:**

> (Anyway, if you ask me, I'm not actually convinced Phantom Minatsuki would have been completely unaffected by the pseudo-identity thing, not as much as Real Minatsuki here thinks he is; "Laica" is just an asshole with a lot of complexes. And I love him for it.)
> 
> ((And yeah, I'm that rando from tumblr. It probably isn't hard to figure out which one.))


End file.
